


Watford Wonderland

by OtherWorldsIveLivedIn



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...as slow as it can be in 5 chapters, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Christmas Market AU, Crochet CAN be sexy, Crochet Rivals to Lovers, Crochet Stall AU is the new Coffee Shop AU, Crochet metaphors beware, Crochet puns sorry not sorry, Enemies to Lovers, Feel free to shun me, Gratuitous crochet references, Listen everyone is queer because I said so, M/M, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Rivals to Lovers, Secret Santa, Slow Burn, The One With The Queer Christmas, Thirsty!Simon, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, is it though?, secret snowflake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28341567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn
Summary: Simon and Baz are yearly rival crochet peddlers at the Christmas Market, but it seems this year, Simon’s thoughts and feelings for Baz are getting all tangled up in knots.Severe misuse of crochet puns and metaphors, you’ve been warned.
Relationships: Dev/Niall (Simon Snow), Ebeneza "Ebb" Petty/Fiona Pitch, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 20
Kudos: 33
Collections: Winter Holiday Collection 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiara_scuro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiara_scuro/gifts).



> Dearest N,
> 
> First off, MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!! Secondly, thank you for being _you_ and for filling my DMs with so much laughter!! Hopefully this can make you laugh in return ❤️
> 
> I was so happy to get somebody I knew for Secret Santa, so I took your prompt of _“getting together/first kiss”_ and tried to give you something as personalised as I could! Your two greatest loves: crochet & an ice rink.
> 
> This is my first ever AU! My brain does not naturally do AU Snowbaz, but I really hope it’s something you’ll enjoy!
> 
> * * *
> 
> The name of this fic is a play on “Winter Wonderland” in London, and if you’ve never been, 2021 should definitely be your year 👀
> 
> And finally, a note for the people of the _actual_ Christmas market in Watford: I apologise in advance for Baz’s scorn, his views are not my own.

** Simon**

I never really enjoyed Christmas until Ebb—well, I'd never really _had_ Christmas until Ebb—but Watford Wonderland is my favourite way to spend it. I love being here with everyone. Even Nico, who’s sometimes a bit of a wanker. (Even Baz, who’s _always_ a bit of a wanker.)

These people have been like my found family since the year I stumbled into Ebb's garage, and I can't help but have a soft spot for them, for this place. Even if Ebb's not here this year. 

I try not to think about that too much, though; it hurts to miss her. Even if she is on the other end of the phone, I’d feel bad interrupting her honeymoon.

I’m feeling pretty good as I start unpacking my pieces. I started branching out my inventory a little after people kept messaging me asking for sofas for their cats. Surprisingly, there's a flourishing market for crocheted pet furniture, and who am I to judge if they’re willing to fork over hard-earned cash? I’m not made of money. I’m not _Baz._

Shep has helped me market myself over Instagram, so I’m expecting quite a few people to come along this year. He got famous on TikTok for Yarn Bombing the Hoover Dam when he went back to the US in March and he’s been helping me build a following.

Shep’s pretty cool, but he’s more of a social media crocheter, doesn’t really do it for money. Last week he crocheted hyperbolic planes to imitate a coral reef. It was crazy! He must have got hundreds of likes! (Which is really good, in the crochet world.) He was kind enough to give my Etsy shop a shoutout too.

Probably because he’s dating my best friend, but still.

I’m almost finished unloading and folding my first crate when I stand up to see said best friend glaring at me through the hut window. I pretend to busy myself again to avoid her eyes. (It’s terrifying how Penny can always see right through me.)

“Simon,” she says, in that voice she uses when she’s completely done with my shit, but loves me too much to say, “why are you _here,_ and not where I planned for you to be?”

“I asked Aggie to swap with me, she owed me one.” She didn’t. I asked her to swap and when she asked _‘Why?’_ I didn’t get past the word _‘Baz’_ before she rolled her eyes, picked up her stuff and told me to leave her out of it. Seemed like a yeah to me...

“That hasn’t answered my question, Simon.”

I look up from my crate and confirm by her narrowed eyes that, yeah, I’m in trouble. And she’s not going to like my reasoning either.

I open my mouth and try to think of an excuse she’ll think is valid by the time I use words but instead all that comes out is, “…Baz is at this end of the market.”

She groans loudly, rolling her eyes and tipping her head back.

“Give me strength!” she grumbles at the sky, and I wince.

She puts her hands on her hips and gives me a stern look, clearly waiting for me to explain myself.

I just shrug at her. It won’t matter what I say—Penny has never understood why Baz sets me off. ( _I_ don’t really understand why I let Baz get to me as much as he does.)

She sighs and softens.

“It makes sense for the two crochet stalls to bracket the market run, Simon,” she tries to reason with me (even though she’s told me countless times that I’m never reasonable when it comes to Baz). “Surely you’ll sell more that way.”

“No Pen, I need to have Baz where I can see him! Who knows what he could be up to. You know he wants to upstage me. Get more sales. He’s been plotting to steal all my customers for years!”

She narrows her eyes at me, and I brace for the bollocking I’m about to receive.

“Simon, you and Baz are bloody adults now. You can’t go around picking fights with him.” Penny loves to scold me in the best imitation of her mother’s voice.

“Baz is the one who picks fights!”

“No Simon, he hasn’t in at least three years. You pick a fight with him on the first day of the Market and I just think you _shouldn’t_ this year. Not least because I’m in charge and I won't be having it!”

I think back to when I first started helping Ebb out, and how Baz would look down on me for literally everything: how I dressed, the way I was essentially non-verbal, and then my accent when I _did_ talk. He’s always had a personality (and a face) that’s just so perfect for punching, and back then, I wanted nothing more than to do just that.

We haven’t physically fought in years, because Penny’s right—he stopped being a dickhead to me overtly. Now he just plays sneaky games to steal all my bloody customers.

“He hasn’t even graced me with a hello yet, Pen, I think we’re good,” I say, trying to get her off my back. “No fighting.”

“He’s not even here yet, so I don’t think right now counts.” She just sounds weary, and I know her well enough to sense that it’s not really just my feud with Baz that’s set her off. It’s her first time coordinating the market, after all.

I step out from my hut and walk over to her, wrapping her up in a hug. “I promise not to do anything to ruin your event, Pen.”

“You’d better not,” she grumbles, “or I’ll help Baz light you on fire myself.”

* * *

** Baz**

The winter sun reflects off the ice rink as I round the side of it and come face to face with the place I’ve spent every Christmas since before I could remember.

Everything about every inch of this market reminds me of my mother. I stop hesitantly, swallowing down the intense feeling of _missing her_ that floods my veins at the familiar sight of rickety hut roofs and mismatched welcome signs _._ I miss her all the time, of course, but at this market especially.

I only continue doing this every year because it’s what my mother would have wanted. It’s what we did together. She taught me how to crochet, how to weave complex shapes and design my own patterns. Nat’s Knit Knacks is an institution here, and I could never give it up. (Fiona wanted to change the stall name to “Yarned and Dangerous” when she took over, but I told her in no uncertain terms where she could stick her shitty pun.)

I take a deep breath and pass under the familiar neon archway (it looks even tackier in the daylight, if that’s even possible) and round the stage into the area where the stalls stand in two long rows; wooden huts draped in lights and fake snow.

Most people are already here it seems, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s 8am, but Nico runs a tight ship and he’ll likely start foaming at the mouth if we’re not ready and raring to go come nine. I’m glad I had the foresight to have Thomas—my Father’s groundskeeper—drop my things off in advance; I’d be in an even worse mood if I had to lug twenty five crates to the other side of the run.

I’m greeted with a “Staff Welcome Board,” which has clearly been added by Bunce, if the sharp penmanship and the gregarious amounts of purple are anything to go by. She’s fiercely organised, I’ve never minded saying.

Looks like I’ll be working opposite Wellbelove and her vintage fashion stall. That could be nice. Not only will it serve to rile Snow up, but she keeps to herself and doesn’t try to drag me into long conversations about bloody X-Factor like the rest of these numpties every year. As if a mediocre Christmas Number One is a worthy cause to divide the nation over. (I’m surrounded by idiots.)

I consider the other stalls on the map, the familiar names I’ve seen year on year bringing a certain level of nostalgia even my cold heart can’t help but stutter at: Possibelf with her strange and sparkly trinkets, Gareth with his leather belts and wallets, Premal and Stephen with their collection of occult artefacts, Niall with his food stall and, unfortunately, my cousin with whatever atrocity has taken his fancy this year.

I hear Nico’s grating voice booming from behind me, and I flinch so harshly that I feel it crick in my neck.

_“MARKET MEETING!”_

I don’t even attempt to stifle my groan. It’s too early for Nicodemus Petty. I don’t care how often Fiona likes to tell me we’re “practically family,” Nico is _draining._

Why Ebb left her market to him is beyond me. Nico sucks every inch of Christmas spirit out of the place. He’s an emotional vampire.

“Mr Pitch. Nice of you to join us,” he croaks, his gaunt face dripping with distain.

“You’re looking well Nico,” I lie—he’s just as rangy as ever—“new teeth replacements?”

He narrows his eyes at my fake smile, clearly trying to work out if I’m being facetious (I am), but the rest of the Market is starting to gather around us and Nico drops our standoff in favour of delighting in being the centre of attention.

He raises his hands into the air like he's some sort of Christmas Market Messiah as he begins his speech on our Rules and Regulations, and I watch everyone’s excitement bleed from their faces. Christ.

 _You can't do this and they'll be none of that and this here market won’t stand for any shenanigans._ (Or joy, apparently.) I would say it's for the benefit of the newbies, but we've all been working on this market for years; we know the ins and outs of Nico's mood-swings.

If it wasn't for my mother's stall, I'd have stabbed him in the face with my hooks a long time ago, Christmas or not. _Yarned and dangerous, indeed._

Nico runs through the week’s schedule, and I’m reminded once again of how much I truly hate Christmas. (Not as much as Scrooge maybe, but I’m definitely giving him a run for his money.) The idea that we’re all apparently helping out with the Christmas Parade on Thursday makes me want to crawl into Niall’s fryer.

The only person who doesn’t look ready to off themselves is Snow.

I might hate Christmas, but Simon Snow _loves_ it. 

Snow comes alive under the lights, surrounded by the songs and, of course, the food. Granted, I’ve never seen Snow during any other part of the year, but Christmas especially suits him.

I’ve tried to avoid looking at him since we’ve all gathered, even though I’ve felt his eyes searing through me numerous times now.

I give myself permission to look over at him once he starts talking, though, and I’m assaulted by a glowing smile plastered across a freckled face, as if it’s not the arse crack of dawn and Nico hasn’t just delivered a forty five minute soliloquy.

I try to pay attention, but Snow is talking a mile a minute just like usual. I don’t understand what he’s saying half the time; it’s all a bunch of yarn, mostly. He doesn’t shut up once he gets going; eyes bright, lips pulled into a soft smile, hands gesticulating wildly. It’s all so fucking endearing that it makes me want to light his stall on fire.

He’s just so _animated,_ and I lose track of what he’s saying purely because I can’t stop thinking about how _gorgeous_ he is. He comes alive when he gets excited about something—which is almost always, given how he’s basically a puppy—and I can’t take my eyes off of him.

That first year, when Ebb brought him here, he was as quiet as a mouse for four days. And then he saw my crocheted bat, burst into a wide, bright grin and stuttered out a _‘you’re well cool’_ at me, and I was so scared by how _shy_ that made me feel that I told him he sounded stupid and that I didn’t talk to commoners.

He spat at me before he walked off. (I deserved it, although I was livid at the time.)

Even at thirteen years old, I knew I was screwed. I knew that it was weird—that I wanted him as far away from me as possible while still wanting to be next to him at any given opportunity.

I didn’t understand _why,_ but I had the biggest urge to kick him in the knees, and then hold his hand while he cried. (Which I did, the next year, minus the hand holding.)

It took two more years of tormenting each other before I realised that the way he made me feel was something a little like love. And, after that, well, I spent the next few years overcompensating; insults that make me hang my head in shame when I think about them now. Not that Snow hasn’t always given as good as he bloody gets. He’s vicious himself when he’s all worked up. (And I _love_ to get him all worked up.)

Not this year, though. I just want to get on with it this year. No more bickering. No more end of year fights at closing drinks. No more storming off from each other afterwards—Snow, back to his charming new life at Ebb’s farm, and me, back to my cold flat to mourn the loss of his freckled skin for one more year while I cry into my hot chocolate. Pathetic.

No, I won’t be doing that this year.

Dev elbows me as he goes to adjust his hat and I’m drawn away from my pity party back into the blistering cold of Watford to hear Snow say,

“...and the new _Now That’s What I Call Christmas_ CD is out so I—”

“I’d rather throttle myself with yarn than listen to that tasteless nonsense,” I interrupt. (Because apparently I cannot stand his attention being focused elsewhere for five minutes.)

_Pull yourself together, Basilton. You’ve been here an hour and Snow has spent most of that time glaring daggers at you. How much more of his attention do you need?_

I know the answer. And I’m disgusted with myself.

Besides, Nico refuses to play anything released after 1987; there’s no way he would ever play _Now That’s What I Call Christmas_ , even if the CD wasn’t full of shit.

Snow turns to me, a growl starting low in his chest, kissable lips opening to stutter out what is sure to be a pitiful response, when Nico cuts over him.

“We won’t be having any new music,” he snaps. “Ours is fine. Now, off with youse to set up. I expect all windows to be ready for inspection in half hour!”

Snow narrows his eyes at me and I raise my eyebrow to drive my insult home before turning on my heel.

“I’m onto you, Pitch!” he shouts at my receding figure.

I give him the finger without looking back.

That won't be the last of it, I’m sure.

On the walk to my hut, all of the mediocre string lights stutter on in one band of sub-standard illumination; every inch of the market run lit up, casting a glow on the damp ground while music begins to blare through the speakers. Shakin’ Stevens condescendingly reminds everyone that it’s the season for love and understanding, as if a bit of tinsel and eggnog can stop Snow bringing World War 3 down onto my hut windows if he thinks I’m stealing even one customer.

The decorations aren’t even that Christmassy; they never are. Everything is always covered in greens and purples. Is purple even a Christmas colour? Nico seems to think it’s punk, just like my aunt Fiona. I don’t know why Ebb ever indulged those two when she was still here.

The music changes and The Pogues carry out an assault on my ears, singing about glory days gone by; not at all festive and terribly morose. (There’s a reason it’s my favourite Christmas song.)

I walk past a line of blow-up Santas swaying in the wind, a tacky sleigh bringing up the rear with a half inflated Rudolph-type creature laying like roadkill across the walkway. (There’s a sign of how dire the week is going to be if there ever was one.)

I step over it with a sigh.

Welcome to Watford Wonderland; Nico’s cheap rip-off of the main event in London.

* * *

** Simon**

I’m trying not to let Baz bother me already as I trudge along after him. The lights spring to life, and even though they’re dulled by the fact it’s still daylight, they lift my mood a little.

I hang back and let Baz slide into his hut before I make my way over to mine as stealthily as I can (complete with Mission Impossible theme tune in my head). Baz probably won’t react well to finding out I swapped huts to be across from him, and I promised Pen I’d at least _try_ and not cause a scene right away.

It’s so dark inside that I walk straight into three of my crates, swearing loudly as if that will get my knee to stop throbbing. I hobble over to unlatch the windows again and I half jump out of my skin when they swing open to reveal Baz’s sneering face. He’s clearly seething, his arms crossed and his eyebrow ready for the attack. 

“Fuck Baz, can’t a man have some space!”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“What?” Best to play dumb. Baz constantly comments on my idiocy, and it works in my favour sometimes.

“Why are you here?” he hisses at me, eyes narrowing.

“To sell crochet, Baz.” I try for a nonchalant shrug but end up whacking my elbow off another crate, sending it toppling along with the rest.

I catch his eye roll as I bend down to gather the contents, thankful for an excuse not to be at the mercy of his piercing grey eyes. They’re ruthless today, the colour of knives.

“Don’t be moronic.” He leans over the edge of my window, as if he’s making sure I’m not going to make a break for it. (I _did_ consider crawling across the ground to get out, so he’s not completely crazy.) “This was meant to be Wellbelove’s stall.”

“So she asked me to swap, chill out.” 

“Wellbelove asked to switch?”

 _“Yes,”_ I lie, lifting the crate back onto the counter.

He raises his eyebrow at me, and I try to think of a believable excuse.

“You creep her out!”

That’s probably not far off; he creeps _me_ out, at least. Some of the looks he gives me send shivers right down my spine.

Baz is more Halloween than Christmas. He looks like a movie vampire; a gangly widows-peak one like Dracula, not one of those loved-up twats from Twilight. (Although his skin is pretty flawless, and he _is_ unnaturally handsome.) (Still, I doubt Baz has ever been lovey-dovey in his life.)

“Kindly remove yourself from my personal space,” he commands. He’s trying to intimidate me, but the wind has him wrapping his floor-length crocheted cardigan tighter around himself, and that ruins the effect a little. He’s never looked more bloody soft. (Or at least, what counts as soft for someone like _Baz.)_

“It’s a free market, you knob. Or, well, the stall is paid for but the— _oh, you know what I mean.”_ Fuck me, we’ve been at it for five minutes and I’m already tongue-tied. He just gets me so worked up! I can’t think around him!

“Stay out of my way, Snow,” he hisses before turning away from me so dramatically that his long cardigan billows in the wind behind him like a cape. (Like I said, _vampire.)_

* * *

  
I get shouted at during inspection because I’m nowhere near finished. I should have folded everything last night and got it all ready, but Shep was showing me his latest Yarn Bomb over Simon Cowell’s house and I got all distracted.

Not only did I have to endure Nico going barmy, I also had to suffer Baz’s smug face from over his shoulder. I wanted to leap across the counter, knock him down and jab him in the eye with those fancy-ass Rosewood hooks of his.

Even though I’m itching to rough him up most of the time—make him lose that infuriating composure—Penny was right; it’s been years since we’ve physically fought. And I’m better at managing my anger nowadays.

Ebb found me tearing up her garage door with my fists when I was thirteen, and even though she couldn’t take me in, she let me help her out a few times a week. When she first suggested that I learn to crochet with her, I laughed in her face. (Thought I was gonna be a hard knock and ‘Crochet King’ didn’t exactly fit the vibe.)

But crocheting really has helped starve the oxygen out of my rage. And there’s nothing quite like the buzz I get once I’ve finished my own creation. Ebb had a sign over her workbench that said _‘I crochet so I don’t unravel’_ and I have to say, keeping my hands busy definitely keeps my mind from spouting off nonsense.

I still can’t believe I’m actually here though, if I’m honest, managing a _crochet stall_ of all things.

I can’t get a decent look at Baz’s stall, but I can see that he’s still addicted to crocheting lace. He must have at least forty doilies spread out on his counter—already perfectly pressed, of course—ornamental loops on display.

 _“They’re picot,”_ Ebb had told me when I was fifteen and moaning about his handiwork. Baz is obsessed with picots, always has been. They’re pretty flashy and he uses them on almost all his pieces.

Shep told me “picot” comes from the French verb ‘prick,’ and isn’t that just fitting: Baz is the biggest prick I’ve ever met.

Anyway, I finally finish up as the first people start to trail through. I’m thankful for the distraction from thoughts of how Baz is plotting to ruin me this year, now that Ebb and Fiona aren’t here to keep us in check.

I do try to inspect Baz closer when I go on my break to grab a hot chocolate, though, just to make sure he’s not doing anything nefarious. He raises his eyebrow at me as I get a little too close to be casual, but the customer he’s serving saves me from a scathing comment.

I catch sight of what the customer is buying: a primrose stitch scarf with a lace edge. The style isn’t out of the ordinary for Baz—traditional period patterns, fancy as hell—but the bold colours are new; rainbow-coloured crocheted flowers flow through it, and that _is_ different. Usually my stall is the one you come to for fun, colourful pieces.

I used to mock Baz for being boring when we were younger, and he’d laugh at me for being crap at all that traditional stuff.

I still don’t really get it. Ebb tried to teach it to me, but I just found it boring. I use blogs and YouTube videos, old magazines I find at car boot sales. I know they’re not fancy like Baz’s pieces, but they’re cosy and comfy and it’s just what you need this time of year.

(I’d never tell anyone that, secretly, I agree with Ebb; his pieces have a nice timeless quality to them.)

I’ve just finished selling the last of my granny-stripe stitched blankets when I hear giggling across the way at Baz’s stall.

I ignore the old man currently looking over my collection of Santa-head pom-pom scarves to crane my neck, trying to see what they’re laughing at.

One of them is holding what looks to be a lace scarf in her hands, smiling widely at Baz while he’s talking to the other. I try to listen in, but it’s too quiet for me to hear what he’s saying. I _do_ hear the result, though; more giggling and flips of the women’s hair.

I furrow my eyebrows. Why are they laughing? Baz isn’t funny _._ He’s snarky and mocking, but it’s not _funny._

He must feel my eyes on him, because he pauses and glances my way. I narrow my own at him, letting him know that I’ve noticed he’s trying to charm people and I’m not happy about it. He raises his eyebrow before turning his back on me. 

Bloody rude.

I shuffle out of my hut and attempt to cross the walkway to him, but Penny appears in my vision and pushes me back towards my stall. How did she know? Is Penny _spying_ on me?

“No, Simon,” she scolds. “You promised to leave him alone this year!” She drags me by the sleeve back into my hut, ignoring my protests.

“He was _wooing_ them, Penny! He was trying to use his fancy brows and pretty eyes to charm customers away from me!”

She rolls her eyes at me, but I’m in a right fluster and I can’t stop.

“He was telling jokes, Pen. Baz Pitch, _telling jokes.”_

That does get her attention. “Well, what kind of jokes?” she asks, as if that’s even the point.

“I don’t know. Probably flirting. He had this one woman in stitches!” Her brows raise. “Not literal stitches,” I amend. “She was laughing and— oh, never mind.”

My fire peters out and I’m left with something hollow in my gut. She never gets it. Baz is… well, Baz just gets under my skin. Every year, the second I see him setting up his stall, it’s like he somehow manages to burrow right into me. Sets up camp in my brain and stalks my every thought.

He doesn’t even need to say anything. Just knowing he’s there puts me on edge.

Knowing that once again, I’m going to have to spend a whole week around his sharp tongue and his bloody condescending eyebrow. 

Some days I’m so full of rage at him, it makes me breathless.

Penny is clearly oblivious to my Baz-based meltdown, because she doesn’t drop it.

“I think he’s quite witty sometimes,” she muses.

The betrayal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now I know it’s not Christmas anymore, but Simon wanted to thirst over his biggest adversary arm-crocheting a blanket, and who am I to deprive him of that? 🧶

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) for beta’ing and cheerleading and being an all round great friend 🥰 (and for thinking up Simon’s stall name, a true genius!)

** Baz**

“It’d take no time at all to whack “let’s hook up” on the back of my hoodie and you know it!”

“Why can’t you just ask Niall out the normal way?”

“I reckon he likes grand displays of affection,” Dev muses, placing his thumb and forefinger on his chin as if he were learned and not a complete pillock.

“The man runs a food stall, why on earth would you think that?”

He grins at me cheekily and I decide that I don’t actually want to know why he thinks that. (It’s best not to indulge him.)

Dev cornered me in the car park this morning after I chose to drive in for once, given the warning for bad weather. (The day I trust the British Transport System during a storm is the day I finally let Dev tattoo me with his—probably rust-ridden—at-home kit.) He hasn’t stopped talking my ear off about his schoolboy crush on Niall and I’m trying to block him out while I finish Agatha’s clothes order. 

I have managed to sneak away to see her a few times though, showing her various flower patterns for the last piece. Just our logo left to embroider now. Snow has been trying to pretend he hasn’t been watching my every move, and I’ve actually managed to hold off on winding him up on purpose. I’m doing quite well at ignoring him; maybe if I leave him alone, he’ll respond in kind. (I don’t hold high hopes.)

Dev—who has clearly given up on his glassblowing or whatever abomination he was trying to sell this year—throws his head back and whines my name loudly. Maybe if I actually help him, he’ll finally fuck off.

“Why don’t you just talk to him,” I snap, “rather than trying to force me to crochet dicks onto a tea cosy.”

“That’s not a bad idea if-“

_“No.”_

He groans in that way he always used to when I’d refuse to go along with his childhood antics. “I can’t just go and _talk_ to him, what would I even say?”

“Hi, I have a micropenis but give me a chance anyway?”

“You can be a right twat, you know that.”

“And you make me want to pry my ears off with a crochet hook. Now stop irritating me and pass me that yarn. Please.”

Dev lifts my yarn out of the crate I’m pointing to and then I watch as the gremlin shoves his face into the bundle and takes a deep breath.

“What are you doing, you cretin?”

“Smells nice,” he mumbles, shrugging in a manner that’s all too Snow-like before dropping the pile onto the counter. I got into hand-dyeing yarn a few months ago, and I admit it does smell rather lovely.

I try to go back to ignoring him but he starts coughing harshly and I delight in getting to whack him hard on the back a few times before he spits out a bit of red yarn.

He’s wheezing as he tries to speak and I take pity on him and hand over my coffee. (I don’t actually want him to choke.)

“See! Love!”

“What?”

“It’s like that bloody Hanahaki disease, but instead of flowers I’m coughing up fucking yarn!”

“Stop being dramatic.” I roll my eyes so hard I almost pull a muscle. “Your menial crush on Niall is not going to kill you.”

“It’s not menial, you tosser. I love him. I’m sure of it. And, I think he could love me, if he gave me a chance.”

Surprisingly, I agree with him. (Not that I’d tell him that.)

Dev’s obsession with Niall is far too reminiscent of my own pining, before I realised it was futile. But I’ve seen the way Niall looks at him—I think Dev actually has a chance, if he'd just _talk_ to him, like a normal human being. They’re both as oblivious as each other.

Dev might be my cousin, but we’re nothing alike. He’s still ruled by his emotions, but I learned to manage mine at a young age; all the better not to get emotionally attached to people. (Or anything, really.) Sure, life isn’t that exciting, but it’s definitely simple. I don’t need to _meet people_ and _form connections_ like Fiona is always lecturing me over.

I’d gotten another lecture just before she’d left for her flight.

“You’re binding off before your time Baz, ending your stitches when there’s a shit ton of fabric left,” she’d scolded while packing her stuff for her flight.

“You've been spending too much time around Ebb, Fiona. Since when did you start using bloody crochet metaphors?” I’d snapped, feeling defensive.

“Since I started sleeping in her bed, you snarky prat. Now go grab me a coffee.”

She picked the wrong metaphor if she wanted to warn me. _Binding off_ is not a bad thing. The simple technique produces a tight, strong edge. Unflappable. Rigid. And with no flares—it retains its composition under tension. Under stress.

Exactly how you need to be to survive this world, I’ve found.

Now Snow, on the other hand, he’s a nightmare. A whirlwind of chaos. Every December, he barges back into my life and shakes my stitches loose. It’s work to hold my composure around him, and a lot of the time, I barely manage it.

* * *

** Simon**

Baz has been ignoring me all morning. He ignored me all of yesterday evening, too.

It’s suspicious. Every year we bicker and fight, and I’m not saying that I _like_ the fighting—it’s just strange that we’re not.

Baz _never_ ignores me. He usually does everything he can to _make_ _sure_ that we can’t ignore each other _._ It’s almost like we save our antagonism up all year, getting ready to battle it out at market week. But this year, it feels like Baz hasn’t bothered to show up for it at all.

I don’t understand what’s changed.

One person he _hasn’t_ been ignoring though, is Agatha.

I voice all of this to Penny, who I’m almost certain is doing her hardest to block me out while she writes everyone’s names down for the Secret Santa she’s forcing all of us to be a part of for “team building” later this week.

Three days she’s giving us to find a gift, as if my brain isn’t too tangled together with thoughts of Baz to even consider someone else.

Anyway, that’s not the problem right now. Right now the problem is that Baz is leaving his stall to Dev’s watch and heading in the direction of...

“Aggie’s had him at her stall four times already this morning, and there he goes again!”

“How do you even know that, Simon?”

“I’ve been watching, obviously. I _have_ to.” Even to my own ears I can hear how defensive I am.

She puts down her pens and looks up at me cautiously. “Why are you watching Agatha, I thought you were over her?”

“I’m not watching Agatha, Pen, I’m watching Baz.”

“Well, stop watching Baz then.” Her face relaxes—seemingly satisfied that she won’t have to deal with the ‘ _Snagatha Shitshow’_ again—and she goes back to her names.

“But how do I know that he’s not copying my ideas if I don’t watch?”

She ignores me, insisting that _“they’re friends, Simon.”_ She sounds like she actually believes that, but I scoff; Baz doesn’t have friends.

Aggie and I haven’t been together for years, but we actually _are_ friends. Maybe Baz still fancies her. He used to watch us all the time during those years that we were dating.

Wait, are _they_ dating?

“Do you think Baz is interested in her? Like, romantically?”

“I don’t know, Simon, why do you care?”

“Well. It’s just... I _don’t_ care.”

Another sigh, “Okay Si. Can we talk about something else now, please?”

I look over at Agatha’s stall and watch as Baz pulls a bundle out of his crocheted tote bag and hands it to Agatha. She looks a little shocked, and I’m too far away to tell if it’s out of happiness or fear.

“He could be bothering her! I should go check.”

Penny tries to tell me to _“just leave it!”_ but I’m already up and hurrying over.

Why is Baz giving her a gift? Why is Baz constantly over there? Is he stalking her? Isn’t that a little desperate? I mean, Penny tells me that I stalk Baz all the time, but that’s because I fear for my business! So that’s clearly okay.

I can make out a few of the items as I hurry over. Agatha’s unfolding and holding them against herself: a scarf and hat combo—covered in more fucking picots and purple, white, grey and black flowers—and what looks like actual matching jumpers for her and her dog Lucy.

Agatha went to _Baz,_ for a bloody _dog jumper?_ I’m the person who’s semi-famous on Instagram for cat sofas, why would she go to _him?_

I dodge around a group of old biddies hovering near Gareth’s heater under the pretence of buying something, and I’m admittedly a little out of breath when I finally make it to Agatha’s stall.

“What’s this then?” I demand, directing my glare at the side of Baz’s face, his bloody cheekbones out for the world to see.

“Oh. Hi Simon.” Agatha gives me a polite smile and I turn briefly to return it.

Baz doesn’t even look my way; he’s too interested in Agatha. My blood boils. He’s so bloody rude and I tell him so.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eyes—won’t even turn his whole head, the git—and snaps, “I’m not the one who barged over here like a walrus in heat.”

“Someone had to make sure you weren’t bothering Agatha.”

I think I actually see Agatha roll her eyes in sync with Baz.

“Agatha can look after herself, Snow. Leave. You’re not wanted,” he drawls, his side profile set in a sneer.

 _Not wanted._ That’s the first thing he’s said to me in over twenty four hours. _Not wanted._ I’m fuming.

“Why do you always have to go for the lowest fucking blow!” I yell back.

He turns his head to face me finally, a little furrow between his pointy eyebrows, as if he’s confused by my heated reaction. His shoulders droop and his face goes blank after a second or two before he opens his mouth to respond, but Agatha’s loud sigh cuts him off.

“Simon,” she interrupts, “please fulfil your heroic mission away from my stall. It’s too early for this.”

“Sorry Ags.” I give her my best apologetic smile while Baz’s eyes complete another circuit of his skull before he stalks off in the opposite direction of our stalls.

 _Where’s he going now?_ Has he made clothes for every woman and her dog? Where’s mine? (Not that I’d want any of Baz’s pieces. I wouldn’t actually _wear_ them.) (Although he does make quite nice cardigans.)

I decide to follow him. If he’s recruiting the rest of the market to his cause through gifts, then that’s something I should know about.

“Give it a rest, Snow,” Baz shouts over his shoulder at me.

“I’m going to get a drink from Niall’s!”

He sighs heavily, like he’s done with me. How can he be done with me? He’s barely spoken to me all morning!

I keep trudging along behind him until, eventually, he turns abruptly and narrows his eyes at me. I actually step back a little, I wasn’t expecting him to look so fierce.

“If you have something to say, you had better just spit it out,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “so I can go back to pretending you don’t exist.”

He’s such a tosser, and there’s no way I’d ever let him pretend I’m not right fucking here. I step closer to him—squaring up, until we’re almost nose to nose—trying to ignore the frustration I feel when I have to look _up_ at his sneering expression; trying to focus on the issue at hand. (And to stop Baz from tangling up my thoughts like usual.)

“Leave. Agatha. Alone.” There. That sounded firm.

He raises that infernal eyebrow at me and when he responds, it’s low and vicious enough that I feel it shiver down my back.

“Or what?”

I breathe deep to calm myself, cheeks flaming with indignation, but the smell of him fills my nose; it’s mocking and sweeter than he’ll ever actually be—especially when he’s looking at me like he wants to tear me apart.

It’s been ages since we’ve been this close to each other, and I’d love nothing more than to grab him by his crocheted jumper and push him down; give him a good shake until he _stops_ being such an utter knob to me.

I don’t actually get the chance to retaliate though—not that I had anything witty at the ready anyways—because the intensity in Baz’s eyes clears, replaced by shock momentarily, as if he’s just realised where he is—practically pressed up against my chest—before his face becomes blank and he steps back. (Further than necessary to be honest.) (Although I have spat at him before, so maybe he’s thinking of that.)

“The market has barely been open for a day,” he hisses, “and already you’re a knot in my side!”

“Yeah, barely a day, and the first thing you do is beg Agatha for business?”

"You think I made Agatha’s commission overnight?"

"Well, maybe. I mean. You’re pretty fast at it."

He raises his eyebrow at me. "Was that a compliment, Snow?"

I bluster a little. That’s not at all what I meant. I mean, well, it _is._ I suppose. I can’t think right now. I’m all worked up from our standoff. I'm not used to being that close to him, not now that we don’t physically fight. Was that what was about to happen? It certainly felt heated.

Penny would be really angry if we ended up fighting. On day two, no less.

“Fuck off,” is all I manage to grunt at him—lame, so eternally lame—before I turn around and head back in the direction of my hut, ( _our_ huts) breathing deeply in an attempt to get the smell of him out of my nose.

* * *

** Baz**

It’s barely been four hours and I’m at my knit’s end with him today.

It seems our—way too heated, if you ask me—standoff this morning has done nothing to dampen Snow’s enthusiasm; he’s the life and soul of the Christmas Market, just like usual. 

Not only is he parading around the place in a jumper that has ‘ _knit fast die warm’_ emblazoned across the back (I’m disgusted at how amusing I find it) but he’s donning Santa hats, cheering up screaming children, making awful Christmas puns at market dwellers and singing along— _badly_ —to every single bloody song. (I could have lived my whole life without hearing Snow butcher _Silent Night.)_

Nico and I actually catch eyes a few times, and I can see he’s as bothered by Snow’s Christmas cheer almost as much as I am—but for entirely different reasons. Snow’s flushed, and cheerful and alive with wonder, and I’ve had to hide my smiles over his antics behind my merchandise more times than I’d care to admit.

It's impossible to bring Snow's mood down when he’s like this. Well, almost impossible; I found out a long time ago that he reserves his harsh looks and fury just for me. It's my own fault—I actively curated our rivalry when we were kids, so I can't blame him for it now. I just don’t like that he can pull this warmth out of me, because it’ll never be returned.

I’m pathetic enough that I put his socks on this morning. I’d never tell anyone that I buy Simon’s socks from his Etsy store. Socks, hats, a novelty tea cosy... I know I could have made those things for myself, but Simon’s designs are always so fun and colourful, and more imaginative than I could ever hope for. Plus, I’m sick in love and it feels nice knowing that he made these things for me… even if he didn’t _actually_ know he was doing it.

I’m doing a good job at ignoring Snow’s mutinous glares and the pointed comments he keeps throwing across the walkway when a woman approaches my stall to ask me questions about a chunky blanket she’s trying to arm-crochet her girlfriend for Christmas. 

I barely manage to hold back my groan and a particularly brutal eye roll—those blankets might look nice, but they fall apart within a week, and I don’t hesitate to tell her so. She doesn’t seem to care. She’s insistent and she tells me her friend recommended me, someone who had recently bought something from my stall, and I can’t help but I preen a little. 

Flattery will get you everywhere, and word of mouth really is the best marketing strategy—so after a bit of haggling, I finally agree to get it started for her so she can watch and learn. I love giving tutorials, and the lunchtime rush is over anyway. I tie the familiar slip-knot and get to work.

* * *

** Simon**

I can’t take my eyes off of Baz.

It’s not like I haven’t seen anybody arm-crochet a piece before—in fact, I helped Shepard make an infinity scarf last week—but this. This is _different,_ somehow.

He’s taken off his jacket so that the circles aren’t too loose and his forearms are so bloody long that he’s able to fit at least forty loops along the length of them. It’s pretty wicked. (Even if it _is_ obscene.)

His technique is flawless and he’s graceful as he moves too, fluid; I can see the whole motion working its way from his wrist, up the length of his arm and through his shoulders. His hands pass through each hole effortlessly and his long fingers are precise, working faster to grab each new section than I ever thought possible.

He started out slow, caressing the yarn as he was instructing the woman on what to do—at least, I assume that’s what he’s doing, and she hasn’t just paid to watch.

Of course he’d make this into a show, though. Everything about Baz Pitch has to be a bloody performance; and of course there’s not a stitch out of place. Fucking typical.

But that’s when it occurs to me that maybe this is another trick, another way to win over customers. Maybe he’s trying to get a name for himself, like with those weirdly sensual pottery videos Shep showed me on TikTok.

It _is_ a little seductive, and Baz is handsome enough that I could almost see him becoming famous for it... if he wasn’t such a moody prick. Although, maybe there’s a market on TikTok for dark, brooding boys? I make a note to ask Shep.

Baz’s silky hair falls across his face as he leans forward to show the woman how to begin the next row, and I have the urge to go over there and push it out of his eyes. I mean, surely he can’t see properly with it like that, and I wouldn’t want him to teach her the wrong thing. _Especially_ if she's paying; it wouldn't be good press for the Market.

I stand up, ready to make my way over there.

“Alright there, Simon?”

“Huh?” 

It’s Rhys. I hadn’t even noticed him wheel up to my window. “You look a bit flushed. You got a Christmas flu?”

“Oh. Er. No. Must be spending too much time by my heater.”

“Ah. Well, I’m helping Penny give out the Secret Santa names. Here.” He smiles widely as he lifts up a Santa hat that I can see is full of bits of paper. “Choose one.”

I really would rather be over at Baz’s stall right now, making sure that he’s doing a good job, but Rhys is smiling widely at me and he’s too nice a guy to fob off.

I grin back while I reach my hand in—Secret Santa _is_ fun after all—but it slides straight off my face as I see the name written on the slip.

_Baz Pitch._

* * *

** Baz**

I chose to stay late this evening to get most of Bunce’s Secret Santa gift finished straight away. There’s no one around now that the market has closed—save for Merton who locks up after cleaning—but I still feel less alone here than my cold, dark flat. (Who knew I would actually _miss_ living with my deranged aunt?)

Still, his street sweeper is getting closer and closer to the end of the run, so I pack away what I have into a crate, intending to finish off the rest at home. I had taken my shoes off to relax a bit, given Snow’s socks are thick and warm, and as I bend down to put them back on, I hear a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“What are you still doing here, Baz?”

My head snaps up and, sure enough, there’s Simon Snow. He’s bundled up against the cold, his nose and cheeks ruddy and his eyebrows furrowed in concern. (Or suspicion. It’s hard to tell with Snow.)

I raise my eyebrow back at him and I’m about to ask him the same thing when his eyes drop to my stockinged feet.

“Are– are those my socks?”

_Shit._

Before my usually quick-witted brain can think up an excuse, Simon’s expression fills with rage. “Did you steal my socks?”

 _“Steal?_ I’m not a thief, Snow!”

“Then why d’you have them?”

Not how, he asked _why..._ I can’t bloody well tell him that.

* * *

** Simon**

“I didn’t even know they were yours,” he tells me, as he clumsily tries to get his posh wanker shoes back on, usually precise fingers now fumbling with the laces. I’ve never seen Baz be clumsy in his life.

As he lifts his left foot, I spot a glimpse of my logo monogrammed into the sole of the sock. I turn to look at my stall—directly opposite his—that has the exact same _Ebb & Sew_ emblazoned across the top in rainbow letters.

He’s a bloody liar! And by the time I turn back to tell him so, he’s gone. I spin in a circle, trying to spot the prat before I see him hobbling away towards the car park, crate balanced in one arm, shoes in the other, tiny crocheted dragon wings taunting me on the heels of his socks. **  
**

_My_ socks. That Baz is wearing.

“Oi!” I shout and take off after him.

He doesn’t slow. He’s all legs. Like a praying mantis.

“Hey! Baz!”

He’s opening his car door and climbing in as I up my speed into a jog, but by the time I’m rapping on his window he’s looking over his shoulder and reversing out of his spot.

I consider running in front of the car to stop him but then think better of it—probably a bit much over a pair of dragon-winged socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr here: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) for beta’ing and cheerleading and being an all round great friend 🥰 and thank you to [AoiHerondale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AoiHerondale/pseuds/AoiHerondale) for being my assigned beta from SHP 🥳
> 
> And to [Xivz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/pseuds/xivz) who’s always there in my corner ❤️
> 
> You can find me on tumblr here: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰


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